As I drive down the highway, peering through my portal into the vast expanse ahead, with the cool breeze blowing against my face through the window where one arm rests, as the other steers me in the direction that I wish to travel, my ears open up to Davendra Banhart, who calls out to me through the tunnels of the stereo chamber, and his words
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i love you like a soapbox. you need to write more, and once all of this college bullshit is done with, we need to hang out more. and it needs to involve martinis and banjos and straw hats and whisky and yeah yeah yeah.
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And I am glad I got to read this.
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